A Sacred Dance
by BlackWreath
Summary: Michael Jackson choreographs a dance for the Queen to classical music. An emotional scene that spans just fifteen minutes, Michael uses visions and his life's frequent dramas to interpret the music as he accompanies a young pianist on a turbulent journey of haunting, beautiful melodies to complete a ground-breaking dance sequence for the Queen on her anniversary gala dinner.


**A Sacred Dance**

Silence tolled gently like a silver bell as he cleared his mind of all tangible thought. He gave a silent nod into the far corner of the room. He had to focus...he had to focus…

The first chord struck out into the dead of the well-ventilated room, ringing with an eerie and tantalising quality. He picked up his dress shirt from the floor nimbly. It was black as ink.

An accompanying melody soon picked up from the singular note, playing into his ears slowly as an emotion akin to deep fear and intense pain wound its way around his heart, seeking to overcome...to vanquish…

He had the faintest vision of a tiny settlement, like a village, smoking slightly and tucked away between the jagged rocks of a rocky mountain terrain. He saw flames attacking it. The melody was heavy with unspoken emotions, waiting to be interpreted by those who would pause and listen.

He quickly trained his conscience back onto the present. He could not afford to lose control now: he had promised to see it to the end. Dutifully, he kept his word as he did a clean James Brown sweep, lingering in the pose for only a few seconds before he twirled around on his feet, keeping it minimal, keeping it in control, keeping it laden with the sorrow he had perceived from the music.

As he grasped his jacket in a lightly clenched fist, he heard an "oh" of wonder coming from his one intimate audience, but he expertly dismissed it as a passing defect of the music. He had to focus…

The music deepened in chord and lessened in its underlying tones that had evoked his fear to resemble that of a gong reverberating into the early morning, as people started from their slumbers and proceeded to wash their faces in a stone basin nearby sluggishly. Embodying the fatigue they experienced, and the sense of earnest anticipation they felt for the day that stretched long before them, he struck out with his whole arm, grasping the very air above him like it was a lever that would pull him up, reaching out to the barren ceiling with renewed faith in the wonders nature would bring.

In this same fashion which symbolised the very idea of the passion and hopes the awakening villagers had for the good of their community each day, Michael drew breath, filling his lungs with cool air before he was off on his agile two feet like a masterful shadow, flitting in and out from the glowing, sharp circle of white light the spotlight overhead offered. The villagers rose with the sun; in the same manner, he responded to the only source of illumination with a fervour of his own, seeking to interact with it on a higher, more spiritual level. He succeeded in this.

Slowly, gracefully, he moved like a young willow in the breeze, dancing with a gentle and innocent quality that was hard to ignore. Youthfulness was evident upon his face as he smiled subconsciously, his lips slightly parted as he effortlessly executed a side glide across the floor.

All of a sudden, the melody changed into a frenzied, yet fluid torrent of quick notes, each seeking to embed themselves into his brain. It urged him to imitate the universal message of fear which rang true in its chords. It was telling him to flee, for the enemy had come to the village! Visions of bright red fear flashed before his eyes like the very phantoms of death, bringing about a haunting sense of deep anxiety as it sought to envelop his whole being like an avalanche. The underlying tones of fear he had perceived from the very beginning had not been misplaced; he had been right to think that a catastrophe would strike the village.

He danced just then with a certain attitude reminiscent to that of haste and fear injected into his movements, sharp and quick, clean and biting. Without thought, he launched into a series of robot-like moves, later transiting smoothly from the apparent invincibility of machines to the emotional transparency of human feelings. With evident anguish, he snapped his legs straight at shoulder-width apart and straightened his arm out to his right, pointing like a gun. His left palm he placed deftly atop his left shoulder blade: a pledge to the salvation of human existence.

The ground was shaking; the air was thick with smoke; the distant shouts of people who had been frightened by the sudden arrival of hundreds of soldiers swarming the hills, glinting with polished weapons and wooden spears rang like the helpless cries of an infant. The menacing echo of the whole contingent of soldier feet against stone and grass had a petrifying effect on the people of the village: most, too stricken to react just yet, regarded the dreadful congregation with mouths slightly open, and though the gong was ringing incessantly, many were too dazed to start fleeing. It was only after the mayor had run out into the village to personally persuade the villagers to run for their lives that they started to show any signs of dawning fear at the impending danger.

They had their lives to flee for, their children to protect, and what little belongings they could take with them to salvage, to be used only when the mayor had found them all a suitable place that would shelter them from the bulbous eyes of the enemy. They had telescopes and flashing lenses of binoculars. It would be known to _him_ as the paparazzi, for they never left _him_ alone with their detestable cameras.

This was it. His eyes lit up midway as he recognised the press and media as the 'bad' people, and himself as the victim of all the tabloids, very much like the hapless villagers themselves. Whether or not this was an apt metaphor for his predicament did not matter to him just then, for this was how he viewed his life. How very inevitable it was, that he should liken a vision conjured up by the frenzied music to his own dealings with the notorious media. Personification and categorisation of the events in his life were sometimes the key to lessening his miseries.

Executing a toe stand flawlessly atop Florsheim black loafers, he then performed a signature of his, the moonwalk, gliding across the floor with unanticipated anger. He had witnessed with a heavy heart how war could wreck havoc upon peaceful mountain dwellers, and such anger to him was not misplaced. The only conflict that now afflicted his mind was the outcome of the battle he had envisioned.

Dancing was an embodiment of the very soul itself: it represented his feelings to a very acute degree, for one should never inhibit oneself when engaging in the expression of one's mind and emotions, especially through dance. He did not wish to restrict; he simply went with the flow of the music, manipulating his body through a series of graceful movements and body isolations, albeit accompanied with a heaviness and sense of foreboding that was vital to carry the message across of the villagers' fear.

The villagers, all dressed in their bright tribal colours, streamed from the opposite direction of the enemy. Cries of fear emanated from the crowd of villagers as they scampered like frightened rabbits, mistresses calling out to their children; men calling out to their wives. It was a powerful and potent scene, one that drew tears to his eyes in the wake of yet another onslaught of emotion. He saw scarlet flames before his very own eyes. Mesmerised by this vision, he imitated the fierce demons possessing the fires that rampaged the quaint cottages of the village just as the music became dark, menacing and angry. His body moved and twisted to become a continuous cycle of antagonistic-like dance moves that resembled that of a feral predator cornering its prey, with its teeth bared.

Its teeth were the flames; his body came to be the mass of green-clad soldiers descending upon the deserted village like a huge tidal wave. They set fire to several houses, moving with a fearsome speed as they left behind them a clear-cut path of destruction and desolation. It was a heartbreaking, sorrowful sight, that the little stone huts and handsome farms that had once stood tall and proud under the Venetian sunshine were now wrecked to resemble nothing more than smouldering piles of blackened wreckages.

 _Why hadn't he stopped the soldiers?_

The soldiers left promptly after this, for their only intent had been to loot and destroy the village for their own cruel amusement. They had brought along gunny sacks to serve the former purpose. With cackling echoing from the noisy battalion of soldiers, they marched away, triumphant with the success of yet another robbery from the dirt poor villagers of the countryside.

Michael gritted his teeth, and automatically, he switched from the detestable role of the soldiers and flames to now embody the villagers' keen sense of despair as they witnessed their village smoking slightly in the distance. Evidently, some time had passed, for the soldiers had gone already, and the fires had managed to eat away half of the village. The mayor had not allowed anyone back to the village lest the soldiers changed their minds, and thus they had watched their homes crumble into a shadow of its former glory that residences in the mountains were endowed with: the beautiful mountain scenery which contributed to the aesthetics of each house. With bowed heads and bent backs, they made their way between the mountain rocks and into the jagged mountain path leading back to their homes. Some lifted their heads to the sky, murmuring prayers of thanks in gratitude for the shelter the mountain terrain had offered. They had been lucky this time, for the soldiers had spared their lives, only taking what they had wanted from the village.

Shoulders tensed and faces spasmed as the quiet congregation stopped just outside of their village, regarding the sad remains of their temporary homes which had not stood much against the brutality of the soldiers, with distress evident upon their weather-beaten faces. Such was the constant peril nomadic communities were faced with during times of war, when each country's military would loot from the defenceless citizens of their enemy. Michael knew not the details of the war he had imagined, only that his mind had imagined a Venetian setting in which to situate a village in. He did not even know if mountains indeed bordered the city of Venice.

From Michael's throat emitted a sound of melancholy and despair- somewhere between a grunt and a whine. The dress shirt was still in his hands. Gradually, he allowed himself the time to transit from those vivid snippets of vision back into the dimly lit studio, getting to be more aware of his bodily sensations. Now perspiring slightly, he whipped the article of clothing up very suddenly. A momentary draught was created onto his downturned face. It whipped his hair back as he thrust his face up, throwing it into sharp focus from the single spotlight above. His cheeks seemed to hollow, acquiring a gaunt appearance. This created the moment in which to do something dramatic. He struck out with both legs at shoulder-width apart and straightened his back to regard the ceiling with eyes smouldering in renewed anger. A guttural sound escaped from his lips again as he struck the pose that very instant, both arms straightened out behind him, holding the jacket firmly. The music stopped as it reached its crescendo just as he held himself erect and absolutely still. He found that he was in the centre of the circle of light.

He was panting, not so much from physical exertion, but rather, from the tumult of emotions he had had to express and convey using body languages of his own creation. Dancing was a test of his abilities to adapt and change in all possible scenarios, and that depended on the state of his mind. There was a reason that he had to be open-minded, or, to more accurately describe it, _disconnected_ from the planes of human existence. When he was dancing, all his focus was on the music itself, and nothing else could draw his attention away in so skilled a manner, the manner in which he always left his audiences gobsmacked after each of his performances. Many said magic flowed in his very limbs, enabling him such revered prowess in the area of dancing, but he persistently attributed his talents to God, being the devout Christian that he was. Music guided his limbs across the floor, and it was as simple as that; there was no secret to it.

Michael breathed in deeply a few times with his eyes half-closed, taking in the poignant fumes of reality, once more rooted into his surroundings. Each breath that he took allowed him to absorb all that he felt, from the cold sting of the air conditioner upon sweaty skin to his own soft breathing, rising...falling...rising...falling…

Just as countryfolk arise with the break of dawn, soaking in the rejuvenating freshness of the morning, so did Michael, as he let his senses explore the expanse of the whole room with the exception of his eyes, for he still had them half-closed, and for what purpose he had yet to discover. He just then sensed movement at the corner of the room in the small gap between his eyelids, and saw his one audience gesturing towards him. A hand signal was flashed, and Michael understood. He silently accepted the quiet challenge sent forth from his single audience, the pianist who had all along played the melodies for him.

From the keyboard rang a set of notes slow-moving and mournful, and Michael was visibly moved by this. With a nod of acknowledgement at the pianist who, out of the corner of his eyes, looked simply delighted, Michael, with all the character and emotion of one who had lost a loved one, bowed his head as he did another James Brown sweep. This one lasted longer, and instead of the minimalistic quality it had possessed in the beginning, it was laden with the wretched despair one would feel at a time of death for one member of his or her close relation.

Michael exhaled slowly such that a continuous breathy sound was made from his mouth. He slipped on the black jacket under the pretense of one under intense scrutiny from his relatives, thus it was kept secretive and sly. A slight sense of guilt accompanied this simple action, and anyone watching there and then would wonder in awe at the amount of feelings he could express in that gesture alone.

His eyes were hooded slightly; his spine was slightly curved; his whole posture spoke of meek submission and despair. Michael opened his eyes to stare broodingly and sadly in front of him.

The music started. He cleared his mind of all conscious thought, and began dancing.

A man had been invited to make a speech in front of the quiet (some sobbing and sniffing) congregation, all dressed in formal black. A polished wooden coffin occupied the space atop a small podium located in the centre in front of all those who had known the dead man when his heart had still beat with a life of its own. The man in front, dressed in the blackest garments of them all (for there was hardly a spot of any other colour on his suit), cleared his throat nervously, which was odd in itself, for in this form of ceremony, the air was only thick with grief and all such morbid feelings; anything remotely less formal would be regarded as an atrocity.

The man fished out a piece of paper from inside his vest, trembling slightly (this could be dismissed as a sign of extreme despair by the noiseless crowd) and fidgeted with his wrist watch - also black- seeming to bide for time that would no longer wait for him.

Gone were the years when he would spend numerous happy memories with his older brother, living a life of fortune and comfort, enjoying their retirement in their old age. His older brother had been ten years his senior, and had been a successful businessman, dying rich. The man wrapped his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. There was something off about his stance as he stood on the small podium, sobbing. Only one member of the crowd knew the reason for his odd behaviour, as evidenced from the tensed form his jaw made and the nervous anticipation upon his lightly perspiring countenance. He knew that a poisonous feeling of profound pleasure bubbled in the man's very veins just then, like magma simmering near the earth's core. He also knew that the man did not grieve for his brother's passing: he was only passing off as a being so wretched and sorrowful in his state of mourning, but inside, he was going mad with joy. That his brother had died in the hands of the police who had accidentally shot him fatally whilst pursuing a thief came as a form of vehement pleasure to him. This member of the crowd was a close friend of his.

Many years ago, when this man had been but a child stalking the streets with an innate affinity for pottery pieces, he had stolen one exquisitely crafted blue ceramic jug and given it to his mother as a birthday present. When his older brother came to know about it, he told their mother, and the child was condemned to a fierce thrashing by his father. His parents made him write a letter conveying his deepest apologies to the shop owner, and return the jug on his own as well. He was very nearly sent to a boy's home for his crime by the shop owner, until his parents took him to consult a local officer under the furious shop owner's insistence. He never forgot the three marks left on his behind. He had been caned by the officer, the most humiliating ordeal he had had to go through in his entire life, while his horrified brother and indifferent parents watched. It would be the blossoming of his life-long hatred towards the police and his brother. What happy memories he had spent with his brother had all been part of his efforts to conserve harmonious ties within the family, and to save them the shame of being known to have a son who loathed his brother.

And thus the unnatural behaviour at his older brother's funeral. His brother had been killed by the police, and that knowledge alone brought a sense of malicious joy fluttering to his heart. How ironic...how _very_ ironic…

The one member of the crowd watched the younger brother deliver his speech with fumbling sentences and a strange lightness in his baritone voice. It was not glaringly apparent, but just enough for him to notice. He shook his head, not wishing to listen anymore…

Michael swallowed hard. He gulped, but could not quite get the sickening feeling to leave, which had arisen during his solitary performance, and now rose like bile in his throat. He was just then engaged in a vigorous routine consisting of various aggressive arm gestures and calculated little growls which spoke of the man's cruel amusement in the fairly subdued atmosphere of the funeral. Not that he was not concentrating, but he had been disturbed by the appalling number of similarities between his life and the man's life. Though they were but figments of his imagination, he had been perturbed, and he did not wish to feel this way, especially when he was in need of unwavering focus. Classical music was considerably more emotional than the songs he composed on his albums, and when taken into consideration the fact that this was his first time choreographing to classical music, it had been a rather impressive feat. Not perfect, but he would work on it.

He would not revisit and compare the man's life with his own just then, for the music fought for his attention, urging him, like a force that was too shy to make itself known, to follow in its haunting musical footsteps. Obediently, he pursued it.

The music now rang and boomed like a thousand gongs, the very symbolism of grandeur and majesty; like a waterfall after the monsoon rains thundering down, roaring like lions and thunder in quick succession of each other, seeking to outperform each other in terms of volume. A chaotic melody struck up from the piano keys, skilfully held in check by the pianist's nimble fingers, and Michael found himself dancing as he would have to the emotional quality of grief and pain necessary in his performance for 'Will You Be There' (10th anniversary MTV performance 1991), and the physically demanding choreography of 'Smooth Criminal'.

The music washed over him like waves of pulsing, glowing energy. Once again, his manoeuvres were dealt out in lightning-quick, minimalistic motions, fueled with an intense feeling only reserved for situations that demanded high emotional capacity and expressivity. He was sensitive to the undercurrent of notes that could only be distinctly heard under the tenacious flow of the general melody, and they were represented by the alacritous footwork he displayed while in his scratched and worn, painfully dull-looking penny loafers, for he never allowed any shoe polish to come into contact with them.

Each action was clean and precise; each action was made to personate the music which illustrated the splendour of the days of old and all such things that were magnificent and glorified in ancient engravings of times long gone; each action was accompanied with a heaviness of heart that could be attributed to both the 'setting of the mood' required for the expression of dance to music, and to human fatigue.

He was beginning to tire, but he dared not stop lest he, in the process, prevent anymore saplings of inspirations and innovations from manifesting themselves through his actions on the dance floor to a final choreography. It was a go-with-flow attitude he adopted whenever he had to choreograph anything: planning was simply restricting in terms of the creativity and innovation required in his performances. This was the reason he had requested a camera to capture his every movement, for even he would not know what he had done until he had seen it in replay. All his steps were executed out of years of practice in his expertise and thus came as a second nature to him, rather than as a purposeful intention. Even as he danced now, he was barely conscious of what he was doing, only relentlessly following the melody like a shadow, interpreting and imitating, his sole aim to reduce the music to smithereens with groundbreaking choreography of which he had free will to manipulate.

The invigorating melody careened his mind off to places of untold thrills and dangers, manifesting themselves into an erotic-themed set of sensations which in turn influenced his movements to be one of fierce passion and power. He was the dragon guarding the cave; the lion patrolling its territory; the mother protecting her children. His dance became an intense display of possession: one moment he became the dominant male in a pack of alpha wolves, the next he had changed to become the undisputed leader of a whole contingent of elephants who would obey his every beck and call. These were ultimately different interpretations of how power existed in different communities. In the human world, power came from wealth, fame, and inheritance. He had both coveted assets of wealth and fame, but that did nothing to prevent himself from slipping occasionally into the filthy hands of the media, where they would seek every opportunity to frame him in the worst form possible; degrade him down to the lowest level no human had ever been reduced to before; destroy his reputation with a ridiculous tabloid that would grace every cover that ever existed in the human entertainment industry. He let out a shrill, resonating cry of the deepest torment.

He found that he was now safely able to compare his own life with the man's twisted life he had imagined just now without fear for distraction, for he would _express_ them in various forms of anguish, exhibiting them in various seconds-long, striking poses and embellishing each stance with vocal sounds created from his own throat. Equipping himself with this confidence in the manner in which he would carry himself about for the next few seconds, maybe even minutes, he struck out with unprecedented fury, letting the addictive feeling coarse through his being like a powerful drug. He fell under its spell instantaneously, flexibility being the key in his performances, and now peppered the floor with agile footwork, weaving in and out of the circle of light which had quickly turned symbolic for a purpose that would be vital in the later part of his performance. He was escaping the media's probing eye: visions of the flashing binoculars and glinting lens of telescopes played before his eyes as he once again envisioned rows upon rows of soldiers spying on the poor villagers, searching between rocks and on hillsides overgrown with wild shrubs. He could contain it no longer.

He finally understood. He was the man who had come to loathe his brother at such a young age; Joseph was the man's brother; the parents of this man were the people he employed under him; the police represented the media. Joseph had made his son despise him through years of harsh treatment. It was Michael's deepest regret that he had not really forged a bond of intimacy with his father through all his years of living with him. The parents, in his imagined scenario, had watched with nonchalance the police punishing the boy they had called their son with a cane; in the same way, when he had been under the constant surveillance of the public and framed by the media, his employees had done nothing but sit and watch the drama unfold bit by bit. It had showed him the stark reality of how things worked, and that the well-being of another person was not what the money-hungry employees had at their top priority, but self-gain and self-benefit. Some even conspired against him by selling untruths to the media, that once again catapulted his name, in large block letters, to dominate the headlines of every newspaper. The police was very clearly the media, for they had served him dishes of spite and malice throughout his career by flashing stories and lies showcasing an eccentric personality that was not him in the very least. He had never slept in an oxygen chamber before; he had never bought the Elephant Man's bones; he had never had the sexual orientation of twisted individuals other than that of a decent, average man's; he had never had more than three rhinoplasties to date, and he had never bleached his skin. He was proud of his black heritage, but people could not accept that.

The glowing circle of light screamed for his attention just then: he had neglected it for too long. He executed a spin that lasted for an astonishing one thousand and eight hundred degrees- five complete isolations- and then, veering out of it, he brought his knees down to land on the floor with an almighty slam in the centre of the light, using his arms as a means of emphasis to the action as he brought them sweeping down in a tight arc to glance his thighs without sound, landing on the floor with an anger and pain that was not missed by his audience.

From there, all his anger seemed to dissipate as his surroundings suddenly quietened down considerably, and trickles of tentative melody could be heard playing out from the grand piano. It was in sharp contrast to the aggressive manner in which the tunes had been churned out with an added fervour on the pianist's part. A retrospective mood was set, and now it seemed to him that his very surroundings contrasted in its blacks and whites even more than before, so that the room resembled a battle between two common nemeses: the living day and the dead night. Light represented the good; darkness represented the evil.

Michael took a deep breath, closing his eyes for an extra effect on his audience: he was moving past the aggressive stage of his dance, transiting gradually into a softer, more sensual approach on many of his dance moves. Slowly, he made his way to the centre of the glowing circle of illumination through means of a cleverly disguised shuffle: something that involved the smooth manipulation of two feet in parallel motion, made to skim as if on water whilst his hands came to rest on his hips. Once on the strategic location, he peeled off the black dress shirt- under which a white shirt was fully revealed, emitting a faint glow in the dark studio- and discarded it off to the side with a jerk of his arm.

There was a certain luminescent quality about his whole being that made him stand out from his surroundings like a ray of light piercing the darkness. His skin, made pale after the diligent, meticulous application of pancake maquillage, shone too, as if it had a light of its own. His jet black curly hair and equally black highwaters formed a splendid contrast against the rest of his slender figure...now, if only he had brought along a black fedora to complement this confidently aesthetic image he projected. Fedora or not, he was going to finish this dance, and make it go off with an explosive blend of flair and emotion. He now listened to the quiet, reflective music intently, letting his body sway according to its melody, allowing himself to be gradually absorbed in its tranquil spell. He tilted his head up to fix his gaze upon an obscure part of the intertwining shadows, and with a suddenness that gave the pianist a sense of surprise and thrill, he whipped his head to face his right.

Facing the front again with the same abruptness, he planted both hands on his waist and seized up his shoulders, rotating them to the back before relaxing them again, performing a sort of circular motion with both shoulders in consecutive orbit around their shoulder sockets. Simultaneously, he jerked his head from side to side in a robotic fashion that was a movement in complete disassociation from the rest of his body: a skilful body isolation technique. Slowly, with the same mechanic, stiff quality, he stepped forward, his shoulder movements swiftly and expertly morphing to acquire the same set of characteristics that guided his feet, no longer rotating. He was soon walking like a robot altogether, following the tempo of the music obediently.

The music soon delved deeper to become yet more gentle, passionate and lilting. Michael understood the implications of this, and soon transited to movements of a more demure nature that were whimsical and playful too. It was inevitable that a superstar of his level of fame and critical acclaim had to have an onstage sexual appeal, and this he chose to showcase now. A performance for the Queen would no less dampen this quality in his solo act.

It was for this very reason that he had been introduced to one of the Queen's royal musicians, a young, amiable gentleman of around twenty five years of age. Michael had promised, after a request from her Royal Highness, to be present at the gala dinner commemorating decades of the Queen's mighty reign with a masterpiece of a performance, and since the young musician had suggested a classical piece, for Her Majesty the Queen favoured classical music above all, Michael had agreed to choreograph one for it. It was to be a fifteen minute dance, and after that, a speech thanking the Queen for the honoured invitation. Being a perfectionist, he had started on it just days after the invitation had been sent, having only two weeks to prepare. He was in need of haste.

Michael dipped his head slightly, it seemed, in apology to those who would soon become his audience in a few week's time, the royalty. It was meant as a poke of fun, for the Queen was of venerable years, and seeing Michael Jackson in the midst of a rather provocative dance routine would certainly bring humour twinkling to her eyes.

Michael envisioned all of this in a smile which had crept up his face, and in so thinking, he continued dancing. Straddling the line of being overboard and the virtue of being modest, he executed a few moves he knew would reduce certain female fans to a sobbing, hyperventilating mess, and spun on the spot, stopping only to perform a toe-stand. Pelvic thrusts became a part of the current theme of his act as his hands playfully slipped down to arrange themselves upon his hipbone. He danced on. Soon, he had executed another moonwalk, a score more moves which had bordered on sexually suggestive and that were at times dealt out unconsciously, and a few timely vocal grunts.

The song gradually lightened in tone to resemble that of the gentler aspects of nature: one could just imagine a stream bubbling cheerfully in a brook; a high range of cliffs against a sunset in which a few deer would be silhouetted against the red and orange hues; a baby sleeping peacefully in a cot with a smile of pure bliss upon its angelic face. Michael felt his heart flutter in delight, and a warm feeling embraced his heart like a mother hugging her child lovingly…

He could hear the undercurrent of notes picking up from its gentler earlier cousins. A tune which was gradually ascending in volume, and getting more energetic by the second, was slowly winding its way up to dominate the musical scene. It was preparing a pompous comeback; it had come back for a purpose, and a meaningful purpose he hoped, at that.

Purity of conduct, of which consisted a set of high moral principles and certain precepts one wished to keep to abide by in one's life, were examples of the more spiritual aspects of a human's goal in life. Another set of principles are more deeply rooted in the benefit of mankind at large, to solve inevitable worldwide conflicts like poverty and discrimination. Both factors thrived like lethal infections, driven by mankind's inability to give unselfishly, and treat everyone as an equal. Michael came immediately under the second category. Wealth could be exploited to fulfil one's desires frequently, but it could also be used to help people; to _heal the world_. Michael placed great importance on this: wherever he was, whenever he could, he would help people. It was an innate generosity and good-will that were oftentimes the motivation behind his many acts of charity, which were almost as frequent as the number of scandals committed by those as affluent as he was in a single year.

The melody rose high, skirting the clouds of obscurity for a moment or two, until it finally descended upon his ears, resonating richly with patriotism, pride, and exuberance. The whole room was filled with a beautiful song, which when combined with the semi-darkness of the studio, the apt manoeuvring of one's body by a consummate dancer, and the advanced, smooth technical handling of piano keys by the faithful pianist of junior years, blended harmoniously to form the very paragon of music and dance. It was a scene that would stir something inside even the most stoic of men.

Michael brought a hand swiping down through the air just as the grand piano rang with a note of finality in its tune, and instantly, Michael shifted his legs apart, one bent and the other straightened to the side, deftly arranging his upper body as straight as an arrow as he whipped back his head to regard the ceiling, with one hand reaching out above him with fingers stretched out and the other hand hidden from sight behind him. Then, the music came crashing down from atop a majestic peak of grand overlapping melodies to die down instantaneously like a whisper of the wind. Michael stopped moving.

Presently, there came the sound of deep steadying breaths, for the pianist was a very emotional being as well. Michael stepped out of his stance, panting and sweating slightly. He went to stop the video recording awkwardly.

"Was it all right?" Michael brought up shyly after moments of silence.

The pianist shifted his chair back with a scraping noise, arranging his seemingly windswept hair -one could not resist engaging in the many body languages that spoke of one's passion and buoyancy (in this case the pianist leapt from his chair a great many times and bobbed his head about like a horse would)- and cleared his throat enthusiastically.

"Mr Jackson-"

"Michael," Michael hurriedly corrected.

"- _Michael_ , it was splendid! You did so very well! I have never seen you perform to classical music, and I must consider myself very privileged to have seen it firsthand, and to be the first to see it too! I thank you very much for the performance! It was marvelous!"

"As long as the Queen enjoys it!" Michael responded, giggling slightly and brushing his nose in embarrassment.

"I'm sure she will, it was so very-" The pianist was ready to launch into another lengthy praise about all he had observed during so auspicious and so private a conference.

"Do you want a drink?" Michael asked suddenly.

The young pianist faltered, then burst into a soft round of chuckles. He had never imagined a conversation with the King of Pop would turn out like this.

"What?" Michael enquired, sounding offended, though he _was_ laughing. "You're my guest!"

"Thank you very much, sir," the young man answered, tipping his head. Michael grinned like a child, and crossed the room to retrieve his dress shirt.

"If the piano needs to be tuned, tell me, and I'll get it fixed as soon as possible. We need to practise under the very best conditions," Michael uttered in serious voice once he had returned.

"With all greatest possible assurance." the young pianist pretended to salute.

Michael smiled, his gentle demeanour once again peaking through the facade he had erected around himself during the fifteen minute performance.


End file.
